In the Vicinity

            The pale green French tips of the firs are short this spring.  I did not notice them until today.  But my backyard has become a jungle of undergrowth.

            White noise provides the backdrop of the morning.  Air purifiers keep some of my sneezes away.  The propane-fueled stove runs on this mid-forties morning.  My cat watches for squirrels through the window and meows for my attention.  The refrigerator kicks on.

            At the computer keyboard I sip my strong coffee brewed with a touch of cinnamon and splashed with more than a touch of cinnamon vanilla creamer.  The small ceramic mug warms my hands.

            I sit, listening, hoping for words to spring up from “In the Vicinity,”  which first presented itself as a title yesterday.  Only now does the background buzz of tinnitus make its way into my consciousness.  I see a mosquito gracefully floating on an air current outside the window.

            Today is May 19.  I remember mid-May from my teaching years, the profound relief of finishing the semester grading, the hot sunshine greeting me as I left my basement office, the promise of unstructured days stretching ahead.  Since 2008, I have lived in a perpetual (though chillier) summer vacation, finding my way in slower rhythms of living, cherishing Nature, digging deep into solitude that only occasionally morphs into loneliness.

            I’m still listening even as I tap out these words, but “In the Vicinity” remains amorphous.